


With A Friend Like This

by as_with_a_sunbeam



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 1804, 1811, Gen, New York, Paris - Freeform, Post-Duel, pre-duel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 05:15:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9973565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/as_with_a_sunbeam/pseuds/as_with_a_sunbeam
Summary: In the spring of 1804, Burr bursts in on Hamilton with a desperate request. Seven years later, Burr hits a low once more, and going to Hamilton is no longer an option.





	

**Harlem, New York, 1804**

 

The sun has only just started to peek over the horizon when Burr jumps from the carriage and bounds up the stairs to Hamilton’s country estate. He’s not been here before. The two men had long passed the days when they enjoyed each others company at intimate dinner parties. Between the death of wife, his daughter’s subsequent marriage and the death of Hamilton’s son, their families had also drifted apart.

The house is still dark. No one seems to be awake yet. Burr’s hands are shaking slightly as he presses them against his face and tries to think. This is desperate. Stupid. He’s going to regret this. He already regrets this.

He thinks about declaring bankruptcy. Being carted off to debtor’s prison and going down in history as a national joke. He takes a deep breath and rings the bell. No answer. Everything is still and quiet. He wonders briefly how Hamilton can stand living here. He slams his fist against the door. When that has no effect either, he rings the bell again, long and loud.  

Finally, he hears footsteps. Light padding of feet over hard wood. The door opens and one of Hamilton’s maids stands nervously before him, hastily dressed and bleary eyed.

“May I help you, sir?” the girl asks.

“I need to speak to your master. Urgently.”

“He’s…yes, sir.” The girl allows him into the foyer and scurries up the winding staircase to wake Hamilton for him.  Burr takes the time alone to examine his surroundings.  The house looks warm and welcoming. Eliza’s touches are clear.

He hears movement coming from the stairs once more, the padding of bare feet on the wooden steps, the steps heavier than the girl’s. Hamilton’s wearing a night shirt, visible underneath his open banyan, his hair hastily pulled back and disarrayed from sleep. His eyes look groggy and confused.

“Burr?” Hamilton asks, voice husky. No mister, no sir. 

Burr nod his head in greeting. “Mr. Hamilton.”

Hamilton half stumbles into the room across the foyer, Burr trailing a step behind. The writing desk, mountains of books, and bright green walls tell Burr this is Hamilton’s study. Hamilton closes the door behind them, sinks into a chair, his eyes still half mast, and yawns hugely.

Silence reigns for another beat before Hamilton finally asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Wrong?” Burr parrots.

“You stopped paying me social calls about five years ago. You expect me to believe you just decided to stop in for a visit at five in the morning?”

“It’s nearly six,” Burr corrects.

“Well that's different.” Hamilton rolls his eyes.

Burr chuckles. He sobers a moment later as he remembers what he needs to say next. Hamilton yawns again while Burr collects himself.

“I’m in trouble,” he begins. “My creditors have called in my debts. They are…substantial. I don’t have enough to cover them and I can’t find anyone willing to lend to me at the present moment.”

“Substantial?” Hamilton presses gently.

“Roughly ten thousand,” Burr admits.

Hamilton nods once. Burr thinks for a moment he’s just watched a great machine come to life, Hamilton’s brilliant brain clicking on as he contemplates Burr’s doom. When he’d first considered doing this, Burr had imagined Hamilton surging to his feet and dancing a jig when he asked his next question.

“I need a loan. Would you help me?” There, he’s said it. Somehow, he’d thought leaving behind his last shred of dignity would be harder.  

Hamilton looks at him with those big, soulful eyes. He’s not dancing, Burr thinks with some relief. He’s also not reaching for a check book. He looks apologetic.

“I can’t,” Hamilton tells him. Burr feels his stomach drop. He’d expected Hamilton to lord it over him, not to refuse him entirely. He’s ruined, he realizes with horror. Hamilton meets his eyes, his cheeks pinking slightly, as he confesses, “I…I don’t have that kind of money.”

Of course he doesn’t. Burr suddenly feels like an idiot. For all Jefferson’s propaganda about Hamilton’s millions stashed in a London Bank, Burr knows Hamilton never profited from office. He’d been caring for his gaggle of children on his pittance of a government salary. Then he’d started practicing law again, but he’d likely drowned himself in debt building this house for Eliza. Of course he doesn’t have ten thousand dollars lying around.

Burr prepares to take his leave, to face his creditors and his ruin like a man, when Hamilton adds, “But I can write to some people for you.”

Burr quirks an eyebrow at him.

“I have a lot of friends. They’d help you if I asked.” Hamilton smiles warmly at him. Burr thinks about hugging him for a moment. Instead, he stays still, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He waits for Hamilton to make his request in return.

When Hamilton doesn’t say anything, Burr prompts, “I’m sure my position gives me ample opportunity to repay your kindness….”

Hamilton’s brow furrows. “You don’t need to repay me. I’m just writing some letters.”

“Thank you.” He doesn’t know what else to say.

“What are friends for?” Hamilton smiles again. There is nothing disingenuous in his voice. Later, that is what will hurt the most.

 

**Paris, France, 1811**

 

Even with the fire roaring in the grate, the room cannot be more than forty degrees. Burr sits shivering in his arm chair, layers of clothes and blankets piled atop him. He reaches out with numb fingers to turn the page of the book he’s reading and nearly whimpers when the biting cold finds its way into the gap in the blankets.

He has no money, no friends, no way home. He can hardly earn enough to feed himself. Napoleon wants him out of the country, but America doesn’t want to let him back in. He’s stuck. Ruined. Hopeless.

Even if he went home, what was there for him? Theodosia is married and settled now. Jefferson has turned the South against him, Wilkinson the west. And home, his true home, had been lost when Hamilton breathed his last. He’d heard the murder charges had been dropped at the very least.

His mind drifts back to that early spring morning when he’d burst in on Hamilton at the Grange. Hamilton had come through for him. He’d convinced John Church, a man who bore no love for Burr, to lend the full ten thousand to keep him from bankruptcy. “What are friends for?” Hamilton had asked him with that warm smile.

Burr felt his own lip quirk up at the memory but quickly fought down the expression. Hamilton was no friend. He’d worked tirelessly to ruin Burr. He’d lost Burr the presidency, the governorship—his whole political career laid waste by Hamilton’s words.

Jefferson’s political machinations lost you the presidency, a voice in the back of his mind argued. You lost the gubernatorial race in the north, not the city, where Hamilton still held sway. If he were honest with himself (something he tried to avoid at all costs nowadays), in the end Hamilton didn’t have the power or influence to ruin his career. At least he hadn’t, until Burr had killed him and made him a martyr.

Burr shakes his head and refocuses on his book. He wishes it were more engaging, so it could distract him from the cold, his misery, and his own thoughts. One last stray thought floats through his mind and makes him loath himself. Here, at his lowest once more, he wishes he still had a friend.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Any feedback appreciated!


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